


The Edge of the Fall

by Moiststar



Series: Wade Into the Water [2]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Tom FUCKS, best boy friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27892567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moiststar/pseuds/Moiststar
Summary: “Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits”(Song of Solomon 4:16)“Преданный”—a Russian word that means both “devoted” and “betrayed”
Relationships: Greg Hirsch & Tom Wambsgans, Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Series: Wade Into the Water [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2042446
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30





	The Edge of the Fall

“Do you want this?”

Greg instinctively waited for a negation, a smarmy exclamation like “just jerking your chain, old boy!”, followed by a jarringly hard clap on the back. However with Tom’s shirt off, kneeling in front of Greg, denial seemed about impossible now.

Still he waited, enjoying the strange rush of pleasure coursing throughout his body, the hum of the coke adding silky sexual urgency to his muscles. After the endless foreplay of jocular teasing, he craved the intimacy of touch so badly he shivered. He couldn’t tell if it was Tom’s first time with another man; he seemed to know what he was doing but even if he didn’t, he was more than willing to let him learn with his own body as the instrument. Besides, beyond awkward make outs and fumbling hand jobs, Greg had little idea how to advance the situation either, making him even more willing to be left in Tom’s decisive hands.

Did he want this? Yeah. Yes. Fuck yes. Somehow Tom was still underestimating him, like he was not an equal player in this game that had gone far past the struggle for corporate dominance or the idiosyncratic intimacy of best friends. This was a nuclear situation, if the other were to ever say anything it would be over. Under their dually crossfaded influence, it began to seem inevitable that all of their star-crossed touches added up to this.

“Yes, I want you, I mean I want this... Do you?”

Tom seemed genuinely conflicted for a moment. His mouth pursed, eyes cast away.

“...We’re just people in rooms. Trying to be happy. That’s it.”

The words seemed hollow, like he was repeating a line from a movie. They hung discordantly in the air, Tom obviously wrestling with their sentiment. Whether or not he believed what he had said or was trying to make himself believe, Greg couldn’t figure it out either.

Another beat of silence and Greg gave up waiting. Anything to get Tom’s attention back to him and away from whatever philosophical dilemma the two of them were both too intoxicated to sort out anyways.

“If you don’t, like, feel comfortable we can stop. I promise I won’t say anything, it’s not a big deal, like it doesn’t matter, you know you can trust me anyways, right? But if you want to keep going, we totally can, I find you, like really beautiful, I mean handsome, I meant I...”

“Greg, shut the fuck up and sit up straight for once. Consider this my reply delivered to your majesty on a gilded silver platter.”

Tom was in front of him, making the effort of sliding Greg’s briefs off and untangling them from his monstrously long legs look easy. Smooth, quick actions with feverish palms, he gasped as his thighs were pushed up and apart. Tom leaned in to kiss him again, softly sucking on his lower lip, nipping it, whispering into his mouth, _you should feel honored, I’ve been told my oral skills are_ exceptional.

Returning his mouth to rest between Greg’s thighs. First kissing the inner sides with soft, warm, wet marks, moving upwards closer to where his hand was at work. Licking, covering him in spit, before suddenly swallowing him to the base.

_God, fuck!_

As if to escape from the overwhelming feeling, he tried to move farther up against the bed frame, but Tom stopped him with an authoritative grip on his thigh. Closing his eyes, he saw fucking visions, colors vibrating behind his eyes, rosé bursting from bottles and overflowing a tower of wide rimmed glasses, sea foam lapping around their bodies, melting them together. He kept talking, whining, pleading, begging, until Tom stopped to stick his fingers in his mouth, moving the hand massaging Greg’s thigh back into the thick mane of his hair to bob his head up and down, forcing him suck his own fingers like Tom was sucking him. He could taste their sweat and his precum. Scotch. The faint taste of salt water. The metal of his wedding band.

“If you’re going to wake the entirety of the yacht, I’m going to adjourn this for the night. You want me to keep going right, cousin Greg?”

Long eyelashes fenced in Tom’s intense gaze, always on the dangerous edge of honesty, always on the verge of exposure. The word ‘cousin’ came out like a barb, painful as the invisible bite marks on his lower lip or the finger marks on his thighs. It didn’t seem to matter what his answer was (which if he could have trusted himself to verbalize one word alone would have been: yes), Tom returned to edging him torturously. These minutes had already made up the best sexual encounter of his life. Eyelids fluttering, sheepishly daring to watch Tom as he sucked him off, occasionally going lower to gently suck and lick his balls. The changing rhythm forced him to bite his tongue, finally conscious that they were not alone in the world, until he couldn’t delay the feeling anymore.

“I’m going to come, I’m going to come, I’m going to,” he repeated as his body convulsed, his head awkwardly hitting the wall, one white knuckled hand grasping the duvet and the other entwined with Tom’s on his thigh stained with bruises.

* * *

Tom, perhaps because he was of a different generation, of a different social class, of a parentage which in all respects was of ‘average white Midwestern American’ stock, placed enormous value on ownership. The change in his marriage made the prospect of belonging to one person, being owned, into a lie. There was no external structure for him to understand anything other than a monogamous relationship. The power of someone being his and perhaps even more importantly, Tom belonging to someone, was unshakable. This power was almost divine. Though he had never really believed in God anyways, despite the dutiful Sunday services attended in childhood. Some truncated version of this discourse occurred to him while he swallowed the not at all unpleasant taste of Greg’s cum. The ever so slightly sweet acidic tinge made him vaguely proud, tangible proof he had improved his protégé’s palate from California Pizza Kitchen to foie gras and ortolan dinners. The practice of hiding under a napkin while devouring the songbird had double explanations, some said it was to hide the so called barbarous act from God, some thought it enhanced the aroma of the Armagnac soaked bird. The latter had always seemed easier for Tom to understand. He had always been more knowledgeable about the sensual than the divine.

He came up again to kiss Greg, transferring the lingering sweetly acidic taste onto the other’s tongue. Instantly they were tangled up in each other, the spit from the blowjob marking both their mouths, continuing into a ritual of tasting. Shiv kissed more like a ‘man’ than Greg did, who shrunk a bit from the intrusion of Tom’s tongue into the depth of his mouth. But he needed him to taste it all. In the end Greg ended up being a much faster learner than Tom, who also was not used to such aggressive kisses in the beginning of his courtship with Shiv.

When they pulled away both of their chins were wet and sticky, heated by ragged breaths, noses continually sparring, forming an odd language of their own, as they angled their faces for deeper kisses and different tastes. Each body part sought communion with the other’s analogous partner. Nearly nauseous with longing, Tom took Greg’s hand, surprisingly familiar, soothing, his long fingers pliant and willing to listen, guiding it towards his crotch.

In a rare turn of events, Tom could barely even speak. A frequent dirty-talker, so much so he was used to and now enjoyed having various fabrics and objects stuffed into his mouth to shut him up, he could barely form a sentence. He held Greg by his hair, helping him find the rhythm to give him release.

“You’re… not so bad at this…”

He could feel Greg’s smile and laugh against his cheek, so close they were melded into one. If I am yours, you must be mine, was the corollary he had operated on, instinctively knowing he would never be chosen first. But with Greg, and already so close, already almost there, it could be turned around. It could be, if you are mine, I am yours.

I am yours.

He may have gasped this as he came, he couldn’t be sure.

* * *

There wasn’t anything else to say after, considering the way Tom recovered in business like rapidity from his orgasm. With a reflexive motion of smoothing back his hair without actually touching it, he quickly disappeared into the bathroom, showered, and redressed leisurely. The pink linen of his shorts and soft blue and white pinstriped cotton shirt replaced some semblance of decorum he had entirely forfeited that night. A waspy armor to return to the disastrous and miraculous scene that awaited him back in the bedroom.

He returned to bed, and with surprising gentleness, couldn’t help but curl around Greg, who had fallen into a contented half sleep on top of tangled up sheets. When he draped an arm over Greg the other grasped his hand lightly, as if in anticipation of finishing their night together with shared sleep. This gesture was so loving, he was shocked into staying like that for a while. Tom clothed, forehead tucked against the back of Greg’s neck, Greg naked and fragrant with dried sweat and sex. He was caught between the fit of their bodies forming a warm cocoon for sleep, and departing so something, somehow could possibly be saved. In the end Tom kissed his neck softly and made to leave.

“Wait, you’re going?”

“How will it look tomorrow morning if I come out of your room in the very same clothes I wore yesterday, Greg?” Tom sighed. He looked at his phone before showering and 1:55 had transformed into 3:15. Staying one moment longer would turn into a sleep that would dismiss sunrise and ensure at the very least awkward looks. At the very worst, a scandal he had no idea how he could recover from. Although to be fair, the entire idea of them sleeping together would be a much harder sell than any other plausible scenario.

“Just five minutes”.

“Greg, you’re a big boy. You can sleep on your own”.

“But this is so nice, just like say we passed out or something…”

“Well, I prefer not to leave this up to chance. But if it helps you sleep better, remember that next time, I will fuck you where you can be as loud as you want. In fact, you will have very little choice in the matter. Bonne nuit, dear cousin.”

His voice betrayed himself; a little too high, a little too eager to be casual.

Greg grunted softly in response, too exhausted to fight, halfway back into an alcohol soaked sleep.

The shower had recovered Tom’s spirits enough to fantasize about their next encounter, this time with lube, balls deep, thrusting until he could finish inside him instead of Greg’s hand… He imagined this in vivid detail from the moment he kissed the back of Greg’s neck, got off the bed, and kissed him again on the mouth before leaving. He continued his reverie on the short walk back to his own room and even as he changed into his monogrammed pajamas and slid into bed next to Shiv, who remained sound asleep.

Tom always took longer to drift off, a light sleeper since youth. So he replayed the night, his heart still safely in a protective casing of intoxicants though the coke had long since worn off. This state temporarily spared him the pain of the burgeoning breaks now coming from two directions instead of one. For now he felt relieved, like he had finally discovered the secret to having his cake and eating it too. The solution to his marital problem. Blackout curtains hid the first white gold rays of sun slipping up to warm the Mediterranean when he finally slept.

What he could have never anticipated was that the next time he would see Greg would not be at breakfast on the yacht. But for a split second on TV, watching Kendall formally declare war upon the Roy family.

**Author's Note:**

> Many apologies if the events are inconsistent with the canon in regards to Greg's departure.
> 
> Also many thanks for all of the lovely comments and encouragements I've received. I'm rewatching, with eyes wide open, so I don't think I will be able to quit these cousins dangereux any time soon. Nor Kendall and Greg...
> 
> I spend most of my time [@dealwithgod](https://dealwithgod.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, if you need to find me!


End file.
